


ends of being and ideal grace

by doctormissy



Series: all aboard the ineffable plan [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Demisexual Crowley (Good Omens), Emotions, Established Relationship, First Time, Fluff, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Porn with Feelings, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), aziraphale loves crepes a whole bloody lot, but crowley will always be genderfluid in my fics, look i'm not kidding about the feelings, there are crepes!, there are references anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:47:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21737848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctormissy/pseuds/doctormissy
Summary: ‘Aziraphale, what—what are you doing?’ he asks, stupidly, the tips of his ears doused with Hellfire, a hummingbird’s heart hammering in his chest.‘What does it look like I’m doing, dearest?’ Aziraphale’s hands are gripping his jacket and moving downwards. It gets stuck on his immovable hands. ‘I’m taking your jacket off. And you’re overthinking things.’‘I’m—’ A throaty sound comes out. He doesn’t know how to respond to that with words—not good at them, remember?—so he tears the jacket off himself and lurches forward, capturing Aziraphale’s teasing lips in a kiss that says,shut up, I love you, I can’t believe you, maybe you’re right, please take thatblastedbow tie off.Or, in other words, Aziraphale braids Crowley’s hair, they go to Paris, and then they get to know each other in the biblical sense.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: all aboard the ineffable plan [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1492577
Comments: 10
Kudos: 131





	ends of being and ideal grace

**Author's Note:**

> *️⃣ set within "all aboard the ineffable plan", somewhere between chapters 12 and 14
> 
> ✅ can be read as stand-alone—but you can check out the second part of the series, "you can hear it in the silence", for the bus scene and lots of post-apocalypse feelings in general ♡

_How do I love thee? Let me count the ways._ _  
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height  
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight  
For the ends of being and ideal grace.  
I love thee to the level of every day’s  
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.  
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.  
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.  
I love thee with the passion put to use  
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.  
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose  
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,  
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,  
I shall but love thee better after death._

—Elizabeth Barret Browning, _How Do I Love Thee?_

* * *

It starts with a careless little sentence that comes out of Crowley’s mouth apropos of nothing: ‘I’ve been thinking of braiding my hair.’

Aziraphale _hmm_ s and puts down his newspaper. Crowley sees him in the corner of his eye.

In barely a heartbeat, his fingers are threading through his hair in a way that is deft where it should be offhand—it’s been years, _thousands of years_ , since he asked him to weave his burning-coal locks into braids for him. But that’s muscle memory for you: adding a certain inexplicable air to all of being.

Crowley swings his legs in the air and hums. His heel idly kicks the side of the armchair. It’s been five months since they moved into this little seaside cottage. Nine since the Apocawhoops.

Nine months of peace, and quiet from the Head Offices.

Unless you count that one time Delilah[1] killed one of Mrs Colby’s chickens, which, according to local demon, caused an unnecessary ruckus, and that other time Gabriel and Beelzebub dropped in and ruined a perfectly good morning, of course.

Also, those two arseholes are shagging now, apparently. What a funny old world. Crowley sniggers, despite himself.

‘Is something the matter, Crowley?’ asks Aziraphale. He twists an elastic around the first plait and moves to the other side of his scalp. Crowley’s hair barely reaches his chin, but it’s enough for Dutch braids.

He does love those fingers, too.

He lets out a noncommittal hum and reaches for the mug that sits on the coffee table among a nest of books and magazines. The coffee is black and cold, and he doesn’t bother with a miracle when he gulps it all down.

He _doesn’t_ want to think about their bosses, so he says nothing.

‘You know,’ Aziraphale continues, ‘I was thinking we could perhaps take a trip when it’s so nice outside, stretch our legs a bit as they say. What do you think, dear? It has been a while since we went to Paris.’

Crowley considers this. When the angel finishes the second plait, he states, ‘You just want crêpes.’

‘Ah.’ He can’t see his face without craning his neck, but he pictures the twitch of guilt and _you-got-me_ anyway. ‘Well, yes. But that’s merely the cherry—or chocolate?—on top, not the cake—which, yes, I imagine doesn’t sound very convincing, because I _am_ quite peckish.’

Aziraphale circles the leather armchair, the palm of his hand on Crowley’s shoulder, a warm touch. There are wrinkles around his excited eyes when he gives him the Look he knows Crowley can’t say no to. ‘What do you say?’

He lets his arm fall and dangle in the air. ‘Ehhhh, what am I to do, I know the lengths you’d go for crêpes, angel.’ He wiggles his eyebrows and throws in a smug half-smirk. ‘1793?’

Aziraphale, like a child caught stealing toffees from the Christmas stash, sheepishly looks away, and rose does not colour his cheeks only because he’s not exactly human. A tiny uncomfortable smile gives way to the excited one. He doesn’t like talking about those times Crowley came marching in and saving the day.

Crowley, on occasion, loves to make fun of him for that. It’s their way of dancing through history.

He swings out of the armchair and spins on his heel to grab Aziraphale’s unsuspecting hand. He grins. ‘Let’s go then. _If_ you’ll let me cause some mischief around the touristy parts.’ He holds up a bargaining finger. ‘No thwarting.’

(He does tend to improvise his way through life, after all. Always has.)

Aziraphale’s azure eyes gaze into his own, yellow, unshielded for the moment. ‘Oh, fine,’ he sighs. ‘But not the Eiffel Tower.’

There’s a story. Don’t ask.

Crowley bites his lip. ‘ _Yes_ the Eiffel Tower.’ When Aziraphale narrows his eyes, he adds, ‘How much do you want crêpes again?’

The answer is, Aziraphale wants them a whole bloody lot. It’s been—two years? Crowley doesn’t remember. What Crowley does is put on a jacket and his sunglasses and saunter over to the Bentley, turning the music on without looking what the CD might have originally been. He waits for a fleck of beige to join him.

Aziraphale still hates his impeccable driving skills and clutches at the seat with one hand and a panicked look in his eye. The other hand grips Crowley’s thigh, nails not sharp enough to leave little crescent marks under his jeans.

It’s Nice.

He takes them to the Main Building in London. They aren’t exempt from the tedious process of what passes for border control in Heaven and Hell, unfortunately enough, so they spend about thirty sad minutes waiting to walk ten metres from one entrance to another. But no one tries to kill them, so Crowley considers it a success and hooks his arm through Aziraphale’s. He leads them through the Door[2] to Paris.

His watch adjusts itself for the different time zone on the way and tells him it’s 1:26 p.m. It’s Sunday, and the streets are accordingly packed with tourists of all kinds of disorganisation and cameras for eyes. Crowley cracks a sly smile.

The bistro, for which Aziraphale almost laid his life[3] during the Revolution, is tucked away in a neat corner of a cosy little street, though, and safe from the feet and complaints of the general public.

They both have their things.

A little bell ding-dongs when Crowley pushes the door open. A woman in a chequered apron gives them a polite smile but blinks at his all-black outfit paired with the sunglasses and braided hair. He ignores her and strides to an empty table instead. Aziraphale can deal with the order. His French has improved since 1793, for sure.

He ignores the other humans’ stares, too, as his chair scrapes across the tiled floor and he drops into it rather unceremoniously. There’s a pitiful vase of lavender and a sugar shaker in front of him. He resists the urge to knock over the one on the neighbouring table right onto a kid’s pancake. There will be a time for upsetting tourists later.

(Old habits die hard.)

Aziraphale joins him a minute later. He’s wearing a near-sickening beam on his handsome face, which, Crowley isn’t going to deny _is_ very handsome and adorable, and who _cares_ a demon shouldn’t use those words, ever. They’re on their own side.

He’s allowed indulgences. He’s allowed to stare shamelessly and cover his hand with his own and snog the Heaven out of him after a late-night ride in the Bentley.

‘I ordered an espresso and an applesauce crêpe for you,’ the angel says, tugging at his sleeves.

‘Mhmm,’ Crowley answers eloquently. Personally, he doesn’t see the appeal of this flat fried-batter thing, sweet or savoury, but food is food, and it makes Aziraphale happy.

‘Oh, it’s been a while since we were here, hasn’t it?’ Aziraphale continues, scrunching his nose in delight. He folds his elbows on the table and looks around. The white walls and pictures and wooden furniture are exactly the same as the last time. But then his face switches to neutral to concerned in a matter of seconds. And—Crowley remembers too.

‘We were on a leave from taking care of Warlock then. I do wonder how he’s doing. We—’ Aziraphale chuckles darkly, not something he’s in the habit of doing. ‘Well, we didn’t do right by him in the end, did we? We… left.’

‘We thought he was the Antichrist. He wasn’t,’ Crowley says. His face is resolutely blank.

‘You cared for him, Crowley, I know you did. You spent more time with him than I ever did.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

Aziraphale gives him a deeply unimpressed look. But it’s like—he’s sad about things. Crowley’s heartbeat makes itself known in his chest without consulting him first. Deep down, in the centre of that treacherous heart, he knows there’s something to what he says.

Take the Ark, the children who almost drowned by Her holy hand. Take Florence, 1348 AD, the Black Death. Take the brilliant idea that they should _raise_ the Antichrist _themselves_.

‘We could, I don’t know. Send him a letter,’ Aziraphale muses.

Crowley lifts an eyebrow. ‘A letter? About _what_ , precisely? How his nanny and gardener suddenly left the household without so much as a wave because they intended to _murder him_ and then eloped together and didn’t even remember him until almost a year later?’ Aziraphale blinks and averts his eyes and fidgets on his chair. ‘Didn’t think so. Wouldn’t reach him anyway. They moved back to America[4].’

His gaze snaps back to him, inquiring, wide. ‘How do you know?’

‘I read the news. Anyway.’ He sniffles; looks up at the girl carrying their drinks and food carefully balanced on her arms. ‘Lunch is here.’

Aziraphale turns his neck and beams unconsciously, more at the sweet-smelling, fruity crêpes than at her, but it’s contagious and spreads to her face as well. _Angels_. She carefully lays the plates and cups atop their table with a wish of _bon appétit_ and scurries away after her next customers. Not that there are many.

Aziraphale inhales the scent of the meal, carried by wisps of vapour curling above it. Berries, light cream, dark chocolate, bourbon vanilla ice cream, sweet batter. Crowley can smell everything, being a snake, his own applesauce and cinnamon crêpe and the overwhelming aroma of coffee too. He doesn’t turn it into a rite, unlike the angel.

Whose eyes close and whose hands pick up the cutlery as he continues to _breathe_ the taste in.

Crowley disregards all manners and picks the crêpe up. He folds it into a smaller triangle and wolfs—snakes?—it down in three gulps before Aziraphale so much as brings his first mouthful anywhere near his mouth.

He tries not to linger on that particular feature of his corporeal form. It’s impossible not to. He knows his kisses now, knows their touch against his cheeks and neck and hands. It’s intoxicating.

Consider an angel’s love: thick, sweet, overwhelming, warm like the syrup droplets on his plate. You can’t ignore it, you can’t swim in it, you can just slowly and steadily drown in it like a scarab in amber four thousand years ago.

Crowley, being an immortal, managed to successfully practise the former until some seventy years ago, and then he still didn’t admit it to himself that that was just what he’s been doing. That would be the garden, early April.

This one, that is.

There are some other things to be said about the Garden and some other Aprils[5].

Figuring it out, though, accepting it as a scarf to wrap around himself on a snowy December night: none of that eased his longing and confusion (and pain, sometimes). Aziraphale’s celestial aura said one thing while his words said another, and it was one of the worst periods of eternity. Loving and being loved back and not being able to _act_ because the fear of discovery and destruction was always lurking in the corner of whichever place they were secretly meeting at.

Aziraphale stares at him disapprovingly as he chews—something. Some raspberries. He hasn’t even sunk his fork into the doughy bits yet. He does it every time, despite having known that _this_ is how snakes _eat_ for literal millennia.

Crowley methodically licks his fingers clean and watches Aziraphale watch him. A smirk tugs at the lips that surround his long digits. Bastard deserves this for being a bloody tease with the way he fucking _stares_ at his food as if it were holy and makes _noises_.

Like, you know, now. Because as soon as he redirects his gaze away from Crowley, much to his chagrin, he _finally_ digs into the crêpe and closes his eyes and rolls his tongue around that piece and—you can imagine.

Crowley is being slowly tortured here.

Out of his own volition. Yes, he knows. He pours some sugar and sinks a spoon into his espresso and gives the crystals at the bottom a whirl, then takes a sip to occupy himself.

He watches and listens. He doesn’t talk. That’s how it goes. They, too, are creatures of habit, post-Armageddon’t or not.

The bill is paid forty-two minutes later, and Crowley is glad the Door is not so far from Avenue des Champs-Elysées, because he can still have some demon-y fun around all the cameras and tour guides. Aziraphale sighs, shooting him a look from the corner of his eye, but it’s more content than anything. His fingers lace in front of his belly. Crowley let himself have _this_ and steals one of them for himself to hold.

Aziraphale is the one who entwines their fingers together. Crowley still has to make the first move, always, but it doesn’t take five days of bickering and separation and more bickering for him to say _yes_ to whatever he dithers about out of custom.

Touching happens. It’s Nice. Kissing happens. Also Nice. He half-smiles.

He[6] had to wait for about 6022 years for a time when he no longer Goes Too Fast. Every second of morning tea, annoying sunlight, arguments about television, existential debates over wine on _their_ sofa in _their_ home is worth it.

It’s not even that long a period if you compare it to the eight _billion_ years of their existence. A mayfly’s lifespan.

‘Ah, that was simply _wonderful_ ,’ says Aziraphale. ‘What they did with the cream, oh my. I _must_ try the caramel one the next time. Do you think we’ll return soon, my dear?’

By which he means, _I want to return soon_. Of course. But, they can do whatever they want now. So, ‘If you’d like.’

‘I’ll hold you to that.’ He leans into Crowley’s side and squeezes his hand. ‘I’ve still been thinking about Warlock, though. I really do think a letter wouldn’t be that bad of an idea.’

With his free hand, or a snap of fingers to be precise, Crowley disables the WiFi in a two-kilometre radius. Humans stop walking and groan. _Good_. Or, not-good. Which is good in his books. Then he says, ‘Let it go, angel, he’s a twelve-year-old and wouldn’t understand what you’d want to say to him anyway.’ He looks at him, raises an eyebrow. ‘Or do you want to keep lying to him?’

‘No, of course not!’ Creases twitch into existence on Aziraphale’s brow. He glares a portion of ice cream ready to tip over into submission before the child notices. He’s addicted to small miracles the same way Crowley is to small curses. ‘But, I don’t know. He may have been, err, a bit discourteous at times, but he was a bright child. With all your songs about _blood_ and _brains_ and _destroying the world_ , I think a truth as simple as that wouldn’t cause much of a trauma in comparison.’

‘Right. “Dear Warlock, the persons you might know as your nanny and gardener are actually a demon and an angel who raised you in an attempt to avert the Apocalypse because, oh look, they thought you were the Antichrist! But it turned out that was a different boy altogether and he saved the world last summer anyway, so, you know, no harm done, everything is peachy, sorry for leaving without a word?”’ he mocks.

‘I would be _subtler_ , of course!’ Aziraphale whisper-shouts. People are staring at their faces, their clothes, their conjoined hands, but _fuck them_ is what Crowley says. ‘He deserves an explanation.’

Crowley hates admitting that Aziraphale is right. But he… might be. To Heaven with it.

‘ _Fine_ , okay, we can think about that later,’ he grits through his teeth. ‘Let’s talk about something else.’

Upon that, he makes a careless bloke on a Segway roll onto the kerb and lose his balance. He grins. Something to forget the nagging at this brain and all those Aziraphale-obscenely-eating-crêpes-related Feelings and the tightness in his chest and trousers from earlier, that.

Aziraphale says, ‘That wasn’t very nice, Crowley.’

‘Obviously. I’m a wily demon, me.’

Also, Segways and hoverboards remind his of Heaven, and Heaven reminds him of the Execution, and that reminds him of Hell and Lucifer and his recent one-day return[7]. It’s a bloody circle. So _what_ if he holds an unwarranted grudge?

‘And I wouldn’t have it any other way.’ Crowley hears the sentiment in Aziraphale’s voice. Ugh. He hates it. (He loves it.) ‘Shall we have some wine?’

‘Oh yes please,’ Crowley says. You can’t be in France and not have some of their wine. Aziraphale leads the way to his favourite place, which stands halfway between where they are and where they’re going, and he lets him pull him along, like a deja vu.

He makes sure to discharge all mobile phone batteries in the vicinity to 20%, and make a pug break out of its master’s grip and run straight into a butcher’s on the way. And then finally, when they’re almost there, he confuses the Heaven out of a bunch of Korean tourists with his totally authentic narrative of the history of this and that church and Paris itself that just so happens to consist entirely of factually incorrect information.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes quite the number of times but does nothing to dissuade him. No, au contraire, he chips in with a bit about the kings at one point and almost knocks the air out of Crowley’s lungs when he lets it slip that it’s somewhat fun.

Crowley has never appreciated the bastard side of him more.

Or wanted to kiss him so hard his treacherous, racing heart almost popped out of his chest.

The tourists nod admiringly and snap pictures. One of the two of them, too. He wonders if it will end up on Instagram somewhere. He’d be in trouble if it did—and that’s the _best_ kind of result. He’s going to check[8].

But first, he does a sharp twist on his heel and pulls Aziraphale into a fairly empty alley, against an alcove that makes the doorway to a closed shop. It was even closed _before_ ; would you look at that. Aziraphale huffs and lets Crowley’s hands curl into the lapels of his coat, and echo of last year, that old manor.

Crowley kisses him. Resisting temptation isn’t exactly in his job description.

It’s not in Aziraphale’s either, not anymore, not on Their Own Side.

Aziraphale pushes back; a hand slides against Crowley’s neck and a soft thumb touches his pulse. Crowley parts his lips and lets his tongue slip out, teasing. Aziraphale takes the clue. There are _no_ shivers running down Crowley’s spine and ending in his groin, thank you very much.

He tastes of pancakes and wild berries and coffee. Crowley’s hand is against his heart, which he can feel despite all the layers, vulnerable, at his mercy, entirely his own. (He’s _wrapped_ in the syrupy, sort of electric love-feeling.) Crowley’s dark one belongs to Aziraphale, too. (He wonders what it feels like to him.)

His hand moves upwards and strokes Crowley’s earlobe first, then his temple, then ends up in his carefully braided hair. The glasses are in the way. They don’t stop Aziraphale from pulling at his lower lip and licking into his mouth and forgetting they’re in _public_.

That’s what the lack of an Apocalypse and being free from one’s overbearing boss does to an angel.

Crowley’s lips stretch in a smile, completely on their own. It’s contagious. Aziraphale giggles into the kiss and then he pulls away. Crowley hates it. He chases after him, gives him another kiss. Short and delighted.

‘Oh, Crowley, that was wicked what you did to those poor people,’ Aziraphale whispers, forehead resting against his. Crowley focuses on the upward tilt of his lips. Passers-by don’t really notice them. ‘Telling them that the Notre-Dame was set on fire by the English, but no one could prove it because the only evidence left was a charred piece of a _sandwich_.’

‘I’m not the one who told them the plot of _The Man in the Iron Mask_ really happened, angel,’ Crowley retorts. His palms smooth out the crumpled coat and he takes a step back. Takes in the elated, flushed, just slightly out-of-place look on Aziraphale. It’s a good one.

And Crowley imprinted it on him. _Crowley_. He’s still not used to it. He wishes he didn’t put on such bloody tight jeans today.

Aziraphale’s eyebrow twitches. ‘Did you—Crowley, did you _read_ the book? I thought you didn’t—’

Read. Yeah. No, he doesn’t, and especially not books so long they must be split into three volumes _still_ 500 pages longer than Crowley could handle. He knows; Aziraphale has all the first editions stashed somewhere in the house[9].

‘I didn’t even know it _was_ a book,’ he cuts in, lying. See what he said before? But he can’t help it. Old habits, revisited. ‘I saw the film.’

But then again, his mouth tends to get away from him when he’s drunk on ethanol and Feelings both—and, weren’t they going for a bottle? Probably. He doesn’t know if he still wants to.

He curls his hands around Aziraphale’s neck, fingers in that soft hair, and pulls him in another kiss. It’s Paris, and they have all the time in the world. (In the Universe and beyond). It’s a slow dance of lips against lips, to an imaginary song coming from their hearts, perfectly synchronised.

Aziraphale’s hand finds itself on the small of his back, warm against the thin fabric of his worn t-shirt. The breath he doesn’t need hitches in Crowley’s throat. He sharply pulls away and nips at his earlobe instead, then whispers, before he loses himself and becomes daring, more daring than ever, ‘We should probably…’

‘Go get that wine. Yes.’

There’s something… different in Aziraphale’s expression. Unreadable. Or, Crowley can’t quite put his mind to it, and he’s studied each one of his little eyebrow quirks and small smiles with the dedication one usually gives to the final sketch of Mona Lisa.

Crowley swallows and frees him from his grasp. Aziraphale takes his hand again, a certain point of reassurance and a thousand unspoken words. They’re not good at those. (Crowley isn’t.)

Crowley speaks through action. Miracles. Touches. Looks, when they’re home. Aziraphale is a talker and always lets Crowley know what’s on his mind: sometimes in curt sentences and words that are just on the critical side of polite, sometimes in long-winding rambles and excited notes. That’s a fact.

That’s why Crowley’s brain short-circuits and does a somersault in his skull when they don’t emerge on the busy Parisian street they escaped before, into that shop doorway. There’s no way to explain it, not by the laws of physics or logic.

Aziraphale has just used a teleportation miracle.

To their living room.

And the trouble with teleportation miracles is, The Boss Always Knows.

But then again, The Boss is probably too occupied with being a class-A hypocrite somewhere to check on what a rogue agent does with his free time. Hopefully. Anyway, Crowley also registers that Aziraphale really had to get his way with the Eiffel Tower thing and wants to laugh.

It comes out as the onset of a snort, and it’s snuffed out when he’s the one being manhandled somewhere for a change. The sofa. Blue eyes are on him, imploring. He knows them better than his own. And he figures it out, what’s different—the _charge_.

Snogging on the sofa, they’ve been there, done that. Quite a few times, too. It never led anywhere. Didn’t need to. They’re only now learning how to coexist in this brand-new reality and how to live in silent moments and how to fit their mouths and hands together. Time. They have enough.

Not that Crowley hasn’t _thought_ about that lovely mouth around his cock. Or eating her out. Or—whatever Effort they make. No: Aziraphale is the only one he thinks of. It wouldn’t—didn’t—feel the same with someone else[10].

But they were just that: _fantasies_.

‘Aziraphale, what—what are you doing?’ he asks, stupidly, the tips of his ears doused with Hellfire, a hummingbird’s heart hammering in his chest.

‘What does it look like I’m doing, dearest?’ Aziraphale’s hands are gripping his jacket and moving downwards. It gets stuck on his immovable hands. ‘I’m taking your jacket off. And you’re overthinking things.’

‘I’m—’ A throaty sound comes out. He doesn’t know how to respond to that with words—not good at them, remember?—so he tears the jacket off himself and lurches forward, capturing Aziraphale’s teasing lips in a kiss that says, _shut up, I love you, I can’t believe you, maybe you’re right, please take that **blasted** bow tie off_.

Then he gets rid of his sunglasses and does it for him. It flutters onto the floor in a moment of dazed silence and Crowley’s heart still won’t _stop_. He’s considering deleting it from his corporation, but no, that wouldn’t be right, he’s a _bad_ (good?) demon who’s in love with an angel and never has been heartless.

A part of his brain is still pondering the teleportation, apparently, because he forces his mouth to speak properly when he asks, ‘What about the car, I left it in London—’

Aziraphale, still in his movement, says, ‘I think you’ll find it parked in the garage.’

He believes him. This? More important.

Aziraphale is lowering his body onto his, straddling him, keeping him steady. His is the polar opposite of Crowley’s long, lean, serpentine, threatening-to-break form. But he could never. Not like this. Because they _fit_.

Aziraphale’s hands travel underneath Crowley’s threadbare shirt and send shivers down his torso that explode under those _satanblessed_ tight trousers. The angel is kissing him. If he notices his hardness, he doesn’t let anything show and works his way down to his throat. His Adam’s apple. (Funny name, that.)

Want to hear a story? That apple got stuck in his throat because Lucifer, that handsome bastard, was making a show of himself underneath one of the trees, all white and glorious, and Adam definitely _liked that_. Eve, well. She was better at controlling herself. It was a truly mortifying event for the poor, innocent serpent who slithered away almost at the speed of light, and found an angel standing on the walls.

The very same angel is undressing him in on their _sofa_ now.

It’s highly unfair; he’s still wearing his coat. ‘Angel,’ Crowley breaths, taking advantage of the moment his hands are up in the air and his body is nowhere near that mouth. ‘I want to—’

Aziraphale cocks an eyebrow. He _folds_ the t-shirt. ‘Yes, dearest?’

Oh, God, Satan, Whoever, he’ll be doomed if he keeps calling him that. He groans, grimaces. But he gets through it and chokes out, ‘See you.’

Aziraphale’s eyes flicker across his face. There’s a minuscule smile. He’s pouring so much heat and love into the room it’s almost suffocating.

Crowley slowly reaches for his beige coat and peels it off his shoulders. The lapels are still crumpled, he notices, and feels an odd sort of satisfaction at that. He wants to toss it onto the floor, but Aziraphale gives his hand a dark look for a second, and he sighs and miracles it onto the coat hanger that stands left of the door. His fingers fumble with the stupid old waistcoat and his lips can’t help but reach for another kiss. Exhilarating. It’s like time has stopped. (Has it? No, the clock is still ticking.)

Crowley hasn’t seen Aziraphale naked since the Roman baths. 45 AD. He has that memory carefully catalogued in a drawer somewhere in his messy head and tries not to dwell on it. Only brings it up every decade or so.

His cock throbs in his trousers and makes him whimper against Aziraphale’s mouth. Those need to go _off_. But first things first. He hastens his work on all those buttons and finally runs his hands across the pale, bare, _smooth_ skin of Aziraphale’s belly. They find the navel.

_Aziraphale, I know it’s a completely unnecessary and puzzling little thing, but humans will stare at you weird if you don’t have one. You know what a **public bath** means, right?_

Aziraphale, as it turns out, is ticklish. He lets out a giggle and jerks. He rocks against Crowley and Crowley moans against his lips because fuck, that feels so _good_ and he’s seriously considering miracling the rest of their clothes away.

Aziraphale stops him. Or, breaks the kiss and leaves Crowley wide-eyed as he leans back on his knees and _stands up_ , traitor. He’s beautiful. And just as hard as him. And gorgeous. Did he say that already? He offers Crowley a hand and says, almost like a purr, ‘Let’s go to the bedroom, Crowley. There’s a perfectly good bed out there.’

(No shit.)

Crowley stands, uneasily, loving that side of him, that ruthless angel who chases away shady men from the mafia and faces the Archangel Gabriel with a kitchen roll for a weapon[11]. That side that hides deep beneath the dithering and the kind smiles, and complements the excitement and passion and everything else.

His thoughts travel to the deepest places where the out-of-the-question questions lay about, and he just _has to_ damn himself again and _ask_. This cat—well, serpent—has been killed, revived, killed again, charred, and chopped to pieces by curiosity, and he’s already there. There’s no stopping this monumentally bad idea now.

Even if he’s not sure whether he wants to hear the answer at all.

But it’s the last piece of the puzzle called Aziraphale. The one he’s never dared ask for.

(Didn’t really want to think about… others.)

‘Have you—’ He clears his throat. ‘Have you done? This?’ He makes a vague motion around the two of them, the route to the bedroom, a bit scared and high on all the burgeoning oxytocin. ‘Before?’

One, two, three, seven heartbeats pass.

‘I have. Several—well, several dozens of times,’ Aziraphale confesses.

Crowley can’t say if he’s surprised or not. He thinks, either answer would have the same result. But his heart beats just a little bit faster, knowing that _Aziraphale_ hasn’t stopped at _food_ and _dancing_ when it came to carnal pleasures, and his cock demands attention, _fuck_.

‘Does that, ah, bother you, Crowley? You know I didn’t know, not back then, and I haven’t been with anyone since, oh, the twenties? She was a singer[12] if I recall—’

‘It—doesn’t bother me, angel, but you don’t need to tell me about them either,’ Crowley says, to stop his rambling, to see that enticing confidence again. (There was one time he’s seen it before, one time Aziraphale took the initiative: when he decided to move out of London and move in with _him_.) ‘Alright, maybe it does a bit, but I’m mostly curious. And horny.’

At least it’s not in the literal sense, he thinks. He’s not that kind of demon.

(It does a bit, because it wasn’t _him_.)

They reach the bedroom, fina-bloody-lly. Aziraphale lowers Crowley onto the bed. ‘Do _you_? Have experience?’ he asks nonchalantly.

His own fault, that question.

‘Obviously, I’m a demon, after all.’ He tries to reach for all the Coolness and Confidence left in him, somewhere. It fails. He’s mostly flustered and yearns for that mouth on his body. Does Aziraphale sense it? He climbs over him and leaves a trail of kisses and—bites! along his chest.

‘Well, not that… much experience,’ Crowley continues, breathless. He throws his head back and subconsciously toes off his shoes. ‘Less than a hundred times. Well, less than ten. Well, three.’

Aziraphale sucks at his nipple. He feels it to the core of his demonic form. His lashes flutter and give him this oxymoronic, innocent look. _Oh?_ it says. _Oh?_ it prods. Crowley doesn’t want to talk about it. _He_ didn’t want to know. Sex—he did that out of the sense of belonging, exploring, _learning_ about humans and how to tempt and draw out their desires. Not love, not real longing. He certainly enjoys sleep or wine or watching Aziraphale give him That Look, that Crowley-will-you-please-do-this-for-me Look, more than any sexual pleasures. (He’s reconsidering. This is Aziraphale we’re talking about.)

And the first time, well.

‘Twice with a human. Once in Heaven. With um. Samael.’ There, he says it. Aziraphale’s hands are on his hips. They suddenly still in their research of dents and moles and the hair that grows around his equally ridiculous navel and leads down into his trousers.

‘But wasn’t Samael Luc—’ He cuts himself off, realisation dawning on his face. Something shifts in his expression, a shadow of an indecipherable emotion. ‘Ah. I see. Well, that makes sense, I suppose.’

Of course he’d think so. Samael—Lucifer—was a magnet drawing angels in. He was heartbroken. Questioning their Father, His creations, His rules, his own role in it all. Crowley was an angel who liked to listen to stories. It was inevitable they found each other.

And Fell together, too. He hated him ever since, even if his questions were entirely his own.

‘Let’s never talk about this again,’ he pants. He takes Aziraphale’s face in his hands. ‘Now, where were we?’

Aziraphale’s lips find his. His hands reach down, down, down, struggle with the belt and button and zipper, but they get there. (He forgets about that conversation immediately.) He helps Crowley snake out of those wretched black jeans and blacker socks. Kneeling over him, he _looks_.

It should be uncomfortable. Crowley doesn’t particularly like his body. How thin and sharp it is. How his eyes remind him of who he is, forever. But it’s not. There’s reverence in his eyes. Reverence he doesn’t deserve and can’t get enough of.

Aziraphale’s gaze falls onto the floral tattoo on his thigh. He saw the snake on his ribs when he took that shirt off, but this one’s new to him. He studies the leaves and petals with his fingertips, traces the ink. Crowley’s so hard it hurts.

‘Beautiful,’ he whispers, and then, solemn, ‘please forgive me, Crowley.’

‘What for?’

(Anything.)

‘Taking so long to realise it.’

‘We’re here now, angel, and that’s what matters. Or did you forget we’re immortal and _free_?’ Crowley says, and surprises everyone and their aunt by being quite so coherent. His eyebrow is playfully raised.

‘Never,’ he says. ‘Can’t _ever_ forget that, dearest.’

‘Then _please_ for the love of _Someone_ take those trousers off.’ Crowley slips a hand under the waistband of that old beige thing and squeezes his arse. He’s never had more of an aversion for Aziraphale’s clothes than he does right now. ‘I need you.’

‘How do you need me, hmm? Tell me, my dear.’ He runs a hand between Crowley’s ribs and levels his body above his, their bellies touching. Their noses touch. A peck lands on his lips when he rolls his hips against him.

‘I—don’t know, just.’ He swallows.

Aziraphale suddenly withdraws and sits back on his knees. Crowley’s skin tingles with the separation. But he still has him pinned down on the bed. ‘We don’t have to have sex if you don’t—’

Crowley glares. ‘Don’t you _dare_ finish that sentence.’

He bites his lip. ‘Well then. Help me?’

Crowley does. He forgets to breathe when he returns the favour and rids him of the last remaining pieces of clothing. Almost. Aziraphale takes his socks off himself. It’s a jagged movement and Aziraphale lets out an uncomfortable chuckle when he finally gets back to bed. To Crowley.

Who’s still wearing boxers.

Aziraphale once told him that he didn’t like his body all that much either, that he was self-conscious about that soft, human tummy. It was just after the Apocalypse, he remembers. _Gabriel, that prick_. But he really, really shouldn’t be. Crowley’s serpentine eyes scan him from head to toe. He’s perfect. He wants to touch him _everywhere_.

Look at him, a demon, having all these Feelings and thinking all these Undemonish Words. But it’s okay, he tells himself. They’re on their own side and can do _anything_.

‘Aziraphale—’

Crowley doesn’t get a chance to word his thoughts when _for once_ they’re as clear as days in Hell are not. Aziraphale, his own length hard against his chest and already leaking, slides his hands under those boxers and rips them off. Sets him free.

‘Let me take care of you, dear boy,’ he says. He drinks in the sight of Crowley like he was that plate of crêpes and a part of his brain _is_ embarrassed about that, but about 91% of him is screaming, _this is happening_ and _fuck me_ and _you’re a satanblessed tease and enjoying this tiny bit of torture, aren’t you? Would make a great demon._

The thought of Falling crosses his mind for a millisecond or four. Demon, angel. But somehow, he _knows_ Aziraphale won’t Fall if he—if they—not like this, not for love, Crowley wouldn’t allow it. He’d fight God Herself if he had to.

Then his mind goes blank. Aziraphale runs his hands along his thighs and leaves a path for kisses to follow, down his inner thighs. He’s not even touching him yet and Crowley doesn’t think he’ll handle it when he does.

And _he_ was the one who was going fast. _Right_.

In a clear moment before Aziraphale kisses the tip of his cock and gives him an experimental lick, he thinks, _would you have shown this side of you to me if I hadn’t offered you to stay the night, if we had kept circling each other, if we hadn’t almost died?_

Then Aziraphale closes his lips around him and takes him all in. He pulls back, _slowly_ , licks at his underside. Then he swallows him again. Crowley curls one hand in his curls and stitches his eyelids together. He has some blasphemous words on his tongue. _God, no dream can do this any justice, that divine **mouth** , oh **fuck** —_

He lets out an incomprehensible streak of sounds instead. And Aziraphale stops.

Crowley forces his eyes to open. He’s staring into pools of blue that are looking up at him through his pale eyelashes. His mouth so blessed close to his cock and smirking. Bastard. (He won’t be able to look at him savouring a crème brûlée the same anymore.) ‘What was that, darling?’

He strokes his thigh.

‘Unnhhh,’ Crowley tries. It’s not working. ‘Should’ve known you’d be all— _insufferable_ , with the way you _eat_ —’

‘Oh, and I intend to relish every bit of you, dearest.’ He creeps closer. Peppers kisses across that tattoo on his ribs, pinches his nipple between his fingers. ‘We’ve got all the time in the world, after all. Eternity, in this bed.’

‘Oh Lord,’ Crowley says. Aziraphale fully straddles him and their cocks rub together.

‘You shan’t take the Lord’s name in vain, Crowley,’ he shakes his head, and it’s a game, one they’ve been playing for a very long time. Crowley reaches for his mouth and jerks his hips underneath him. He grabs his arse and pushes him closer, as close as they can be like this.

Aziraphale takes those hands and pins them against the mattress. ‘None of that,’ he says, _gently_. ‘I said I’d take care of you.’

He rocks against his body, and again, and again, and again, and Crowley is beginning to lose his mind, the heat is overwhelming him. He swims in that celestial adoration, that sweet thickness of it that is the opposite of spooky and anything a demon should love, that he spent the first, oh, three thousand years or so trying to ignore and insisting he couldn’t sense it for twice as long.

Aziraphale can feel that too, coming from him. He knows. He closes his eyes and lets Aziraphale bind his wrists to the bed and ruin those perfect braids as they move against the sheets.

He bites his tongue and still cries out when he comes, and his entire body shudders with an orgasm like he’s never felt before. (It’s true. it’s not the same when he’s not madly in love with his bed partner.) Aziraphale pants above him and catches his mouth in a hungry, desperate kiss.

‘Let me—’ Crowley says against his lips.

He understands. His left hand releases Crowley’s right, and Crowley grips that lovely rock-hard cock and strokes until Aziraphale lets out this indecent moan (better than any he’s heard him make at his food), and then he’s spilling into his hand and all over Crowley’s belly.

He leaves a bruise on his left wrist. Crowley sees when he lets go and brushes a kiss against that sensitive skin.

He’s going to let it turn purple and take days to heal.

His spidery arms tug Aziraphale close, the sticky mess between them disregarded. A forehead rests against his own; the sound of their breath and nothing else fills his eardrums.

‘ _How do I love thee? Let me count the ways_ ,’ Aziraphale whispers. He runs his fingers across Crowley’s scalp, the fiery hair that escaped his careful handiwork, the brow that glistens with droplets of sweat. ‘ _I love thee to the depth and breadth and height_ —’

‘Don’t—quote poetry to me right now, angel,’ he breathes, and a laugh bubbles in his throat. The storm in his heart is calming down, finally, too soon. He drags a hand across Aziraphale’s back, slowly. Aziraphale blinks, and _bless_ those eyelashes. ‘I know what you want to say. I—me too.’

_You have no idea. It’s killing me from within. Or at least it used to._

But demons aren’t good with Feelings and Talking About Things. He can’t say it. He can put that love into careful gestures.

He miracles the cum away. And uses every bit of strength left in him to push Aziraphale onto his back and sit on top of him. He deliberately changes his Effort in the process and lets a smirk tug at his lips at the sight of a flirty-amused-astonished eyebrow going up.

(You can’t really describe anything about Aziraphale with one word.)

Crowley’s breath ghosts over Aziraphale’s cheek as he says, ‘Let me show you.’ Let me love you in turn. ‘Let me show you what _I_ can do.’

‘ _For I see love hath made thee a tame snake_ …’

‘Aziraphale. Shut up,’ Crowley says, and kisses him.

* * *

1 She’s a stray black cat with yellow eyes, who keeps sneaking into their garden in search of edible rodents and, more recently, their kitchen in search of more delicate snacks and cuddles. Crowley named her Delilah after none other than Freddie Mercury’s cat.[✿]

2 What Crowley here refers to as the Door is something more akin an interdimensional portal situated in Heaven and Hell’s main building. There are 18 of them, connecting cities all over the world, and in situations such as these, they are infinitely useful—if you don’t want to waste a teleportation miracle or risk flying, anyway.[✿]

3 Or, you know, corporate body.[✿]

4 The marriage of Harriet and Thaddeus Dowling has never been a particularly successful one. They were always at work, and when they weren’t, they were either fighting or trying not to fight for the good of their son, who would rather be anywhere else anyway, playing video games or listening to loud music. But the other shoe dropped after New Year’s, when Harriet found out about her husband’s mistress, filed for divorce, and took Warlock to the States. It was all over the internet. [✿]

5 Crowley started the tradition of April Fools’ Day, for one.[✿]

6 And _she_ , and _they_ , and everything in between Crowley has gone by throughout the sixty centuries, and Before.[✿]

7 He owed Lucifer a favour for letting him go on Official Terms after said Execution failed. And he collected it when he needed to leave a very disorganised, bored Hell for a while, and put Crowley in charge because he actually _liked_ how resourceful Crowley has always been and needed someone to improve the place where interior design was concerned, and because he was _glad_ that the Earth wasn’t terminated in the end.

Because the Devil lives in LA. With a human. And no one asked him if he really _wanted_ Armageddon to happen, so. [It’s a pretty long story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19861321/chapters/47035351).[✿]

8 Some people on social media are real detectives, finding a friend’s crush only by their first name, but Crowley, being a demon, has the unique ability to find just the photo he needs among the billions of them only by a hashtag entered in the search bar. And if he doesn’t, it means it’s simply not there. He uses this to look for any traces of Aziraphale and himself and wipe those photos off the face of the Earth—but not before he saves every single one.[✿]

9 He strongly suspects Aziraphale used a space-distortion miracle—or as he calls it, a bigger-on-the-inside miracle—in order to fit all his books into the cottage. He was unable to part with more than six (6) of them before they moved out of London. There was only one room for them. And Crowley helped him unpack, so he _knew_ it should be impossible to cram them all onto the shelves.[✿]

10 Once, on a very boring day at the ambassador’s house, Crowley was scrolling away on her phone. And there she found this article. And read. And found herself out. Where she thought she was alone in this strange, _ineffable_ —for the lack of a better word—feeling, she learnt the opposite. It was called _demisexuality_.[✿]

11 That happened last month. It was a part of that unfortunate encounter. Crowley wasn’t much better off, wearing pyjamas, but it was hilarious and blood-stopping at the same time.[✿]

12 Many people, human or otherwise, assume that Aziraphale is the embodiment of the word _gay_ upon meeting him. But the word you’re looking for is _pansexual_ with perhaps a _slight_ preference for male-shaped beings and a 100% preference for Crowley-shaped beings since about 1941.[✿]

**Author's Note:**

> **comments and kudos sustain me <3**


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